By the Sea
by jilduck
Summary: A fanfic centering on Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, from her first marriage to her death. A huge undertaking, please forgive delays. Currently at: chapter 1. OMG I UPDATED!
1. Prologue

A/N: This is the prologue to what will end up being a very long and involved piece of work centered on Mrs. Lovett from the musical Sweeney Todd. I have played Mrs. Lovett in the show and now want to chronicle her based on the character analysis I wrote, and for personal amusement. I love Mrs. Lovett. We're practically the same person.

I have taken some liberties with location here, there's not (to my knowledge anyway) really a graveyard so close to the Thames.

These versions of Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett and all other characters belong to Christopher Bond/Stephen Sondheim/Hugh Wheeler. Yes. Enjoy!

By the Sea

PROLOGUE:

A great author once described the river as a chronicler of the ages. The Tigris and the Euphrates, in their great fertile womb of a valley, have seen the first formations of beast and man. The great Nile has watched the rise and fall of more than one great empire, the atrocities of war. The Huang He has, in all her destructive watery rage, washed away village after village, century after century. The Amazon has witnessed the tribal life, its great, sinewy body cut through by knifelike canoes; the Mississippi, whose banks should by all means be red with the blood of civil unrest, has been a hand to guide the enslaved to his freedom. Today, these eternal serpents observe a very different world, but in the silt dragged along their bellies, they keep the past alive.

Such is true of the river Thames. Cutting through London like a bolt of lightning, this ancient, gray-brown streak has silently endured since before Man came to England. Its murky waters have been sailed on by the Vikings most likely, by the Romans definitely, by the Anglo-Saxons. Prisoners of war and treason let the river carry them solemnly to their fate at the Tower of London. It witnessed the rise of the theatre, the big "wooden O" of Shakespeare's command constructed at its side. Merchants, warriors, and fishermen alike have ridden its frothy flow. And at its bottom, more than likely rest the bones of thousands dead, their remains trapped in the silt of time.

This gargantuan guardian of death is secretive, indeed, for even its visible banks contain mysteries. Cleopatra's Needle, the gates into the Tower, centuries of architecture… and, dozens of meters away, a city of the dead. This plethora of unmarked graves bears an ominous air, for in a Christian nation it would be odd indeed to bury the dead without recognition, unless the bodies were damned anyway.

Yes, these mossy stones mark the final resting places of London's worst – thieves and killers, rapists and the insane.

Most, if not all, of these crude 19th-century burial places are in fact empty, the bodies having been stolen in the night for use in medical dissections, and never returned. The only way one could certainly avoid being the subject of anatomical study was to have no body to work with; to have been cremated.

Because of this, only one occupant remains undisturbed. Her ashes were buried along with the body of a man; his corpse was taken, of course, but having no use for cremated remains, the grave-robbers let her lie, and so she lies in a million particles, to this day.

Who is this scattering of woman, with the unmarked grave and companion in death taken so many years ago? How did she come to this place, a place for twisted criminals and dregs of Victorian society? DNA testing cannot verify her identity, nor was it ever officially recorded who was buried there.

Yet, though the grave is without name, all of London knows her, and the man once with her. They cannot always remember their names, but they all know it in the very depths of their unconscious minds. The nearby Fleet Street remembers too, with a kind of unspoken fear – for, though it is now part of the peaceful printing district, it once witnessed a horror most unspeakable.

And the perpetrators of this horrific act? None other than the buried couple. But since the man is long gone, one must to the unnamable woman, and through her, live a tale of lies, love, and murder most foul. For like the river, the dead, too, can tell stories.


	2. 1: An Old, Lovesick Fool

**By the Sea - Chapter 1: An Old, Lovesick Fool**

A/N: Wow guys, sorry this took like FOREVER to write, I've just been uninspired, I guess. But I'm going to start working on this again, especially once _Assassins_ is over (I'm playing Sara Jane Moore, and right now it's nice to take a break from writing in her perspective and going back to Nellie here). Goddamn, this is going to be one hellllllll of a long fic as it stands, I hope y'all are up to keeping up with it! Oh, and since this is being published post-revival, I'll clarify that the characters in this piece are based on the designs of the original 1979 show. And yeah, I made up Lovett's maiden name, sue me. Buttttt I digress. Enjoy! Reviews appreciated. :)

It was spring, and the flowers were blooming in troughs upon the windowsills, yet all of London reeked of filth. Rotting meat, garbage, excrement of both humans and animals alike – these foul-smelling substances sidled into every nook and cranny of the city. This putrid concoction was like the ground note in some fancy perfume, over which more appealing scents played: the flowers, of course, incense wafting from the nearest church or cathedral, the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked pies…

A young woman, barely twenty-one, stuck her head out of her shop window like a ginger tortoise. She grimaced slightly as the stench smacked her in the face; out here it was not so cloaked with the aromas of yeast and cheap spices. Wide green eyes narrowed slightly at the glare off of St. Paul's white cranium as she gazed uphill. She wondered vaguely if it smelled spectacular in those high, echoing chambers, and wished she could afford incense. Sometimes the stenches of the yeast and the rotting meat made her feel ill; she would never, she noted to herself, get sick from frankincense, whose smell she had experienced once in her life as a child witnessing a funeral procession. She closed her eyes and tried to remember it and couldn't, though as she caught a whiff of gillyflower from the simple basket outside of the window, she decided that smelling like flowers all day long would be just as great of an alternative. With a last sniff at her little basket of flora, she sighed and pulled her head back inside, back to her cozy kitchen and her pies.

'Miserable pies,' she added to herself as calloused, floury fingers sank into warm, sticky dough. She glanced sadly at the growing number of unsold, crumbling pasties on the counter and had to remind herself the lack of sales was not her fault; her family's pieshop had always had terrible business, and going for several days without a single customer was not unheard of. Still, she dreamed of a flourishing enterprise, of _Miss Bankton's Famous Meat Pies_ much-loved throughout London and maybe all of England. Perhaps even the King himself would stop by for a sample. King George himself, raving over the delectable taste of Miss Bankton's fine pies – now wouldn't that be smashing?

After careful consideration, Miss Bankton decided the King would not have to pay.

As she bent over the oven to remove her latest batch, a huge smirk plastered on her face, she was interrupted from her musings by a voice from behind the counter.

"Good afternoon, Miss Bankton." A familiar deep Cockney drawl. She didn't even turn around, but rather smiled and stood up, facing away from the source of the voice.

"Mr. Lovett. Fancy you showin' up here." Her eyes twinkled as she turned around to behold him. Not a particularly attractive man (but then again, she was not a particularly attractive woman), he had a bit of a gut to him and a bit of scruff on his rather weak chin, and was twenty-eight years to her twenty-one. His smile, which he now presented to her, was a warm one, though, his lips thin but folded nicely over slightly crooked teeth. He held out his hand to her, palm as wide as a bear's paw and just as rough.

"Care for a stroll with an old, lovesick fool?" His voice was sheepish, the tips of his ears tinged with a ruddy hue. Miss Bankton ignored his outstretched hand, and instead finished removing the pies from the oven and setting them to cool on the flour-dusted countertop. She lifted her eyes to meet his, brows raised.

"And leave me pies to the clutches of greedy beggars who'll steal 'em as soon as my back is turned? That's bad business there, sir." A speck of flour flew into her nose and she hastily wiped it on the back of her left hand. Mr. Lovett gave a chortle.

"I hate to tell you this, Miss Bankton, but I think you've got nothin' to worry about here." He made a sweeping gesture towards the crumbling, fly-specked pies in the shop's display. It was the sad truth, and she knew it all too well. After a moment, she threw him a defeated smirk and untied her apron, throwing it over the back of a slightly dilapidated chair that hadn't seen a customer in ages. She grabbed her best hat from its perch on the tip of a coatrack and thrust it defiantly down onto the top of her gingered head, where it nestled between two buns, like a cat's ears, a favorite hairstyle of hers that her mother would wear often. She reached for his still proffered palm and rested her floury fingers delicately there, feeling his much larger digits curl around her own.

Together, hand in hand, they left the shop behind them, and, breathing shallowly so as to avoid the stench, began to walk towards the river. Not a single word was spoken between them, even when they reached their destination overlooking the Thames. She was content just to watch the ripples in the water. She had always loved it, the river, the sea, the coolness rushing against her bare skin like silk, though she could never know silk, the rush of the tide and the small waves lapping against the stone banks. Watching the river, she almost forgot about her companion until his hand tightened around hers and he gently turned her to face him.

"Nellie, I've got something I need to say…" Nellie narrowed her eyes inquisitively at him and he let go of her hand and began fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. She reached out to touch him lightly on his forearm, fingertips barely grazing the scratchy brown fabric.

"What is it, Albert dear?" She cocked her head and took note of the fact that he was turning red as her hand curled around his arm, now. She smiled, almost coyly, at him, piercing him with her emerald doe-eyes, maybe even giving her thick eyelashes a flutter, causing him to fluster even more. She liked this effect she had on him.

"I… I love you very much, Nellie Bankton," Albert stuttered furiously, "a-and, I would like it very much if you'd consider becoming Mrs. Nellie Lovett." Nellie's eyes were wide almost as if in incredulity, and Albert must have sensed this because he turned a dark shade of violet and stammered hastily, "Look, it's not as if your parents have to give approval or nothing, they've passed on! And I've got money, my inheritance, you know, and I'm sure it's awful tiring baking those pies all by one's lonesome, and I really do love you and surely after all this time we've been seeing each other you—"

"Of course, Albert dear!" She cut him off, cheeks rosy, a wide grin plastered across her face. "Of course I'll be your wife!" His eyes twinkled, with tears maybe, and after a moment's hesitation he leaned down, trembling, and kissed her full on the mouth, scraggly beard scraping against her chin. She was taken aback for a moment, but she kissed back. Nellie had been kissed before, by old suitors and even by Albert, but they were chaste little kisses, pecks too fleeting to really register. But this was fervent and passionate and lasted forever, and she found the sensation to her liking. Even if Albert's breath was a tad stale, she noted. Still, for a very brief moment, she felt a fleeting sense of real connection to this man, thought she could love him.

When Albert pulled away from the kiss, cupping her face with his hands, he looked into her wide, green eyes and saw love there. And he would always be an old, lovesick fool indeed. It was only his own expression of love he saw reflected there; behind that, Nellie's eyes were empty emerald pools, cold as a dead man's flesh, no warmth, no love to be found anywhere. Her mind was elsewhere.

_Mrs. Nellie Lovett, then. Mrs. Lovett's Famous Meat Pies_. She liked the ring of it.


End file.
